


Suffocate with Sweetness

by Tentabot



Category: Backstrom (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 18:58:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3458240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tentabot/pseuds/Tentabot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Hot/Cold. Sweet/Sour. Love/Hate. Truth/Lie. </i><br/>-<br/>"You know where I am, but you also know where you want me."</p><p>In bed. In his arms. Under his lips. Under his gaze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suffocate with Sweetness

He likes what he likes and he takes it like it’s a sale. That’s how he usually operates, with long lashes thickened and lowered while eyes scan obviously beneath them. He holds a smirk on pink lips that he licks as if deciding whether or not the bargain is worth it and if the product had any form of sentience he’d cry, “pick me!”

Though he loves a challenge, it’s still something he finds himself showing some restraint about. He teases, flirty smiles and weight being distributed heavily on the product, he makes sure his cold breath tickles the skin as if leaving the ghost of a soft kiss. He never leaves the illusion of permanence on anything because the only things that are permanent are the things that hurt.

When he saunters to the sergeant, he does it with a smile on his face but a purpose in his eyes, a permanent mask he doesn’t ever let slip. His hands catch the lapels of the man’s jacket and he cocks his hip at an angle to brush against the man’s side.

"Are you sure you’re not more than metro?" Valentine asks, tone playful and smile widening when Niedermayer adjusts his tie.

"There’s my occupation, for one," is the avoiding reply, and Valentine snorts, eyes widening as he rolled them.

"Nothing wrong with experimenting at your age."

The teasing is still there but the stare he receives makes his smirk falter. The look Niedermayer gives is gentle, something earnest and real. It makes Valentine’s heart flutter but he makes sure the moment passes soon enough because he is starting to stare back with a familiar pining that creeps up his chest and makes his arms burn.

"Regardless of what society deems as something that can be seen with an overall indifferent opinion on the matter by the liberal majority," the clean-cut man takes a breath and continues, "I wouldn’t take advantage of your offer."

Valentine stops, and stares, and stutters. Again, his heart does those turns and his fingers twitch in an urge to brush against a defined jaw that moved with lips that speaks sweetness behind rejection.

"What?"

"I didn’t make myself clear?" The tone is teasing, said with a smile that is crooked and awkward, and Valentine finds himself engulfed in that warmth fully. It creeps through his fingers and in his gut, twisting pleasantly like something he deserves but shouldn’t have. A bit of sugar for the road.

"There’s nothing to take advantage of when I’m asserting my own place with you, preferably on top of you but those are just details that can be easily ignored," he ends up replying to stop himself from gasping. Niedermayer is the one who makes a choked sound instead, shuddering and looking at Valentine with a burning need. 

"We shouldn’t," he asserts, and his hands are over Valentine’s and it makes Valentine feel small and safe. In his hands. In his arms.

He pushes away and he makes sure he doesn’t look hurt.

"You know where I am," he says, "But you also know where you want me."

In bed. In his arms. Under his lips. Under his gaze.

Valentine walks away with a bounce in his step like he had won something between them but all he had managed to do was lose himself. Everything he had worked hard for to build up and shield himself gets torn by someone who treats him more human than even Backstrom. He’s dirty silver in need to be polished and god does he want to be polished by one officer with words spun from silk. Even the man’s idiocies sound endearing.

He always was a sucker for the type though.

That’s why he shuts out that warmth, makes himself feel colder than the burns in his chest and throat. The ones that make his eyes sting. And he applies more makeup to distract from the red in his eyes and the bags under them that show his sleeping pattern is set up in two ways: the men he sees behind closed doors, and the one he sees behind closed eyes.

.

Though the room is dark, Niedermayer can still make out the moving shape that is Valentine tiredly walking about the open space that he calls home. 

Backstrom is out collecting information and questioning already paranoid people. Meanwhile, a lot of evidence makes its way to his home and is picked apart there. Valentine doesn’t mind parading in just his boxer briefs and an obscure band t-shirt while they all work. He has enough decency to stay out of everyone's way, not even flirting once with the sergeant, and for Niedermayer it’s an odd something to happen. He almost expects a sly remark on his work, something that allows him to keep Valentine guessing. But nothing happens.

Valentine is sifting through the fridge and pulls out some milk. He stirs something, tea or coffee, in a mug and adds some milk in before drinking straight from the carton then yawning behind it. His hair is a mess, his eyeliner is smudged and makes his eyes look as if they’re surrounded by smoke, but aside from that Valentine just looks tired. Small. Quiet.

The officer rubs his eyes to keep his fatigue from setting in on them and turns back to his work but he doesn’t really keep himself looking at his research. His head tilts to Valentine who deposits the mug on a free space on the bench Niedermayer has taken up. He takes his coffee a variety of ways when he’s working and though he usually takes it black he’s pleased to have Valentine make a coffee for him. Just for him.

"Thank you," Niedermayer says, and his voice sounds hoarse, lower than what it usually is, but he coughs and repeats it again so it sounds like he’s more just tired than he is sounding like he’s dying.

"Don’t mention it," Valentine replies, waving his hand. He scrubs it over his face and yawns again behind it, glancing over at what Niedermayer was looking over. 

There’s a psychology in evidence, and next to that there is logic and science. It clashes with what he likes to think of the world. That everything and everyone has a story to tell that is more complex than statistics that state if you go through x experience then you must feel y emotion. So he takes pride in his work, as frustrating as it is and as morally ambiguous as it can become. Especially when working with Backstrom.

"Don’t-"

Valentine licks his lips and sighs, shaking his head, and Niedermayer’s curiosity is piqued but he knows there isn’t much further he can get than the niceness he was given with his warm beverage.

"Don’t pull a Backstrom and kill yourself over this," he says finally, taking another deep swig of milk and putting the empty carton back in the fridge. 

He stalks off and Niedermayer feels guilty for letting his eyes trail down to a soft-looking ass and firm-looking legs. Valentine didn’t seem like he was in the mood to accept open perusals of the assets he flaunts often enough.

A few hours later, when sunlight makes itself apparent, Valentine still looks tired. Fresher, hair wet from a shower and some locks stuck to his forehead. He hops into a boot each and shrugs on his coat. Backstrom is back and asleep on the couch, snoring loudly surrounded by bottles of booze and boxes of pizza, a few documents placed precariously on the arms of the couch and on the coffee table.

"I’m out!" Valentine calls, and Niedermayer jumps, startled from his sleep on the benchtop. He watches Valentine give Backstrom a kiss on the forehead, the first bit of affection he had ever seen the abrasive man receive, but then with only a few slow blinks, there’s something soft pressed to his cheek and he sees Valentine’s face pull away. 

Niedermayer feels his cheeks flush and his heart throb and he hides the smile he has behind laced fingers. It doesn’t even fall when Valentine offers his lips to Paquet’s forehead as well. Because he was the only one who got that sweet burn on his cheek.

.

It’s months, or perhaps a year, and there is so much to tell but the words are caught in silence when action takes its place. 

It takes a while but Valentine finally wins. He doesn’t wait around, of course, because he isn’t one to wait for anybody. But for the moment he is caught in, he could have waited. 

"Pete…" he murmurs over chapped lips. How long ago was it when he finally found out Niedermayer’s first name? Last name basis, they always were, but when they are pressed close and Valentine rolls his hips on purpose to make the man gasp and leave himself open there is a level of familiarity that can be freely given.

"V," Niedermayer replies, knowing well enough at this point that the level of familiarity he is allowed is to a nickname rather than a full. Gregory Valentine was just a reminder of sweet nothings and promises unkept. But Valentine. Love. Something that is all his, from start to finish, and when Niedermayer hisses it again, Valentine’s heart flutters and he feels triumphant because that is his name and the only one that Niedermayer can say. That only he can say.

They forget where they are when they’re caught up in themselves. It’s never gone further than the reciprocated touches and light kisses Valentine initiates but Niedermayer feels like Valentine might want to take it further than the teases. Further than the sweetness he’s sure he can return because under the clothing where things are just physical and raw he isn’t sure if he can give what Valentine wants.

And really, he doesn’t. It aggravates Valentine that nothing faster is happening but Niedermayer isn’t told to stop. He isn’t told that he’s doing something wrong. Instead, Valentine’s moans hit the ceiling truthfully. Not something pornographic, but short and broken and sharp. Valentine gasps and his hips buck up and he hisses out a yes before growling when Niedermayer’s movements stutter in shock to the amount of approval he is receiving. But still, if that’s what Valentine is liking from him, then damn is he going to continue because he’s wanted to ravish Valentine in ways that seem very vanilla.

Clothes being removed isn’t a delicate process to Valentine but to Niedermayer it’s as important as foreplay. His fingers skim the hem of Valentine’s shirt and Valentine absolutely shudders. He’s being treated delicately, better than a prize that’s left on a shelf, and it makes him shake. He’s impatient, and Niedermayer can tell, and Valentine can tell that he can tell, but he lets it slide because if there was someone to indulge in it would be this perfectly sweet man.

The tongue that spins together comments like gold can do more than just that, Valentine discovers, and he has a shaky grin as his body is ravaged with slow, strong waves of pleasure that isn’t the quick power fucks he’s so used to. The way they fuck is like a burning candle, slow and hot. Niedermayer makes sure to savor every moment with a look Valentine recognizes on his face.

Tears well up in his eyes but he’s so close and Niedermayer kisses like he cares and it makes his heart burst out of its chest. It’s too much. Too hot. Too sweet. Too much of everything he wished he could avoid but didn’t manage to. It always catches up with him. That feeling like he’s being spun in every direction. It makes his mind a haze but he loves it. He’s such a masochist for feeling that way but dear christ does he missed feeling this wanted. This cherished. This loved.

The high never stops though. Niedermayer makes sure Valentine is close, tucking his chin on his shoulder and just trying to steady his breathing. He takes long deep breaths whereas Valentine’s heart is erratic and he just pretends that he’s not so breathless. Like he’s not suffocating. Like the places where Niedermayer’s hands were didn’t burn as much as what his tattoos liked to cover.

"Stay with me?" 

Niedermayer asks it of Valentine so politely and like he’s expecting Valentine to go. To never return to this bed. To him. And he’s alright with Valentine doing what he wanted. He never wanted to cage a broken free spirit. He just wanted to break the shackles that made flying more difficult with its weight. 

Valentine looks at Niedermayer and lets the hurt show. It hurts a lot more to see it in person than to just assume an understanding but Niedermayer still reaches over and caresses Valentine’s cheek. It’s damp but he ignores it because he knows that Valentine would rather it go unmentioned than to talk it out after some mind-blowing sex

He hates it. How much he loves his touch and his kisses, and the way he smells and how his hair looks so neat in its waves even when it’s mussed by the pillows beneath them. Niedermayer is supposed to only be a conquest. A goal to reach and then move onto another subject. But it’s not enough. He’s still unreachable. A clear sky to sad eyes. He’s so perfect. He hates it.

He shudders, trying to take as deep a breath as he can so he can say, “Fine. It’s cold outside anyway.”

Niedermayer smiles softly and Valentine lays his head on his chest, calming himself to the beat of a heart that he knows yearns for him. It’s such a disgusting thing, love, but he loves it anyway. Because it’s one of those things that isn’t physical, and isn’t permanent, but manages to kill a man slowly and hurt far more than anything else.

-

'I love you' is never something they say to each other. They kiss sometimes. Annoy one another some other times. But after that one night, other nights like it are far in between.

Valentine needs time to himself to figure out what he wants. Niedermayer doesn’t press him but Valentine’s own mind does. It demands to know what he’s doing and what he is going to do. When Valentine watches Niedermayer make breakfast for them, he wants that, but when he looks at his own bare chest and his eyes trace his tattoos he wonders if he really needs it.

Niedermayer doesn’t ever push. He prods sometimes, usually for something small enough to slip through without a retort, and he thinks that there is a destination forming. That they are getting somewhere. Even if Valentine closes as soon as he opens, there’s a gap. A chink in his armor. But he never breaks it apart. He lets Valentine remove a piece one by one.

When he thinks they are ready, Niedermayer admits that he may like Valentine. Only like. Despite the years now of knowing each other, he never gives admits how far his like goes. How much he loves Valentine. Valentine already knows.

Their hands lace together when they walk side by side and Niedermayer thinks that this is okay. This is enough of a start. And Valentine can’t believe he’s getting into this again. Falling into love again, face first, with dark eyes that might puff up with tears when they finally exchange ‘I love you’s. 

It’s years now and they still aren’t as romantic as Niedermayer is all on his own. When they talk about their arrangement, Valentine would comment on the great sex and while Niedermayer wants to comment on the perfect mornings where Valentine is borrowing one of his shirts and eating the scrambled eggs that he made for them, he just agrees and lets the conversation of their sex life end.

Backstrom rolls his eyes at every exchange and barks insults at Niedermayer about their homosexual relations. Most likely to avoid having the talk of ‘hurt him and I hurt you’. He isn’t the sort of man to do those things, even if he cares a lot more about Valentine’s happiness than he lets on. Niedermayer appreciates it though. He learns to take it as an endearment. When Backstrom sneers at the bruises on his neck, Niedermayer just translates it to, “Looks like Valentine was pleased with some happy shit you did. Keep making him happy”. The translations probably would infuriate the detective further if they were voiced aloud.

Aside from the reception to their personal development, the awkward couple themselves couldn’t look happier with Niedermayer’s frown at Valentine and Valentine’s smirk at Niedermayer. 

"You’re an okay guy, you know?" Valentine says out of nowhere, gently squeezing Niedermayer’s hand. He doesn’t look at him but that’s alright. Niedermayer smiles.

"I like you a lot too."

It’s a simple little thing devoid of the grandeur that is most of Niedermayer’s replies but it means many healed scars to Valentine. Because it doesn’t sound like a lie. It doesn’t sound forced. Obligatory. I love you. It just sounds right for them. For now. For a while. Until Valentine can curve his lips to repeat words that used to be spoken honestly to him right back to someone who deserves all that honesty and more. 

He can’t say it now though, but really and truthfully, he probably loves Peter Niedermayer more than he could even manage to say.

**Author's Note:**

>  ~~Christ I hate this show~~  
>  Unedited, taken from my [tumblr](http://robotentacles.tumblr.com/post/112381374458).


End file.
